The Broken Teaglass Read Online Free Page B

by a tiny person perched at the edge of her swivel chair. Her tailored blouse and upswept hair gave the impression of a child dressed up as a businesswoman. She had about a dozen little piles of citations fanned across her desk, and she was staring at them through thick-framed glasses—those dark, angular frames people wear when they’re trying to look fashionably nerdy.
    “Hi,” I said, looking into her cubicle. She had a poster of Humphrey Bogart hanging behind her. Next to her computer was a photograph of her with an older woman who was probably her mother. They were both wearing white.
    “Hey,” she said. She stared at the citations for a moment longer before turning to look up at me. Then she noticed the letter in my hand.
    “Brilliant,” she said under her breath. “That’s
brilliant
.”
    “What?”
    “He didn’t tell me he was gonna give that letter to the newbie.”
    “Who? Dan?”
    “Yeah.” She lowered her voice. “That is such
shit
.”
    She grabbed the letter from my hand. I left the hand extended for a handshake.
    “I’m Billy.”
    “Yeah, hi,” she muttered, shaking my hand absently. “I’m Mona. You know, he’s really a sweet man, but he has no idea how to make a person feel comfortable around this place. Did he make you read front matter all day the first day?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Yeah. Such
shit. This
place is hilarious. That must be why I’m still here. For the laughs. Of course he hasn’t introduced you to anyone else, I’ll bet.”
    I shrugged. “Mr. Needham.”
    “That doesn’t really count. You’ll never talk to Needham again. They keep him around to maintain a sort of Dickensian feel to the place, but only the senior editors ever really have a reason to talk to him. I mean, have you started to meet some
real
people yet? I guess it’s been lonely so far, when your only human contact is those little sessions with Dan, stuffed together in his office.”
    “It’s all right. Dan’s actually pretty cool,” I said.
    “Yeah, I guess. Maybe in the same way a tumbleweed is kind of cool,” she replied, tidying her citation piles.
    An odd characterization. I wondered if it had something to do with Dan’s doomed cactus.
    Mona whispered, “So you’ve met Anna. She’s the art editor. Draws all the little pictures. And she’s the first African-American art editor in Samuelson history.”
    A smirk twisted up the sides of her little pink mouth as she watched my reaction.
    “African-American?” I said.
    “Just look up ‘Afro,’” she whispered, pushing her desk dictionary toward me. I did. Next to the definition was a drawing of a woman with a thick Afro of solid black ink.
    “Yeah?” I said.
    “Look closer,” Mona whispered. “You’re a dictionary editor now. You need to develop a keener eye for details.”
    The woman in the picture had a white face—naturally, since she was outlined in black on white paper. But her nose was straight and sharp. Her eyebrows were thin and neat over slightly drooping eyes.
    “Holy
shit,”
I said, remembering to whisper only the second word.
    “Shhhh,” Mona said. “Control yourself.”
    “That’s just
wrong,”
I whispered.
    “I think it’s brilliant,” Mona said. “Putting yourself in the dictionary where it’s least expected. A hiding place right in front of everyone’s face. Now, probably everyone here’s got a secret fantasy of doing that sort of thing. To write their old high school bully’s name into the definition for ‘asshole,’ or put a picture of themselves at ‘awesome,’ or something. But of course you’d never get away with it. But just adding a touch of yourself, smiling from a little hiding spot—”
    “A touch? It’s kind of … ghastly, actually.”
    Mona hit me on the arm, swinging unexpectedly hard. “
Ghastly
. Don’t take it so seriously. It doesn’t hurt anyone. It doesn’t alter the meaning or compromise the definition. And we all need to find little ways to keep ourselves happy around